Say Yes
by Mercator
Summary: Hogswatchnight, and a seamstress becomes a very special gift for a very exclusive Client. But all is not what it seems... **FINI**
1. One

** Finally got around to fixing the old formatting on this. Should make the reading easier on everyone. Disclaimers: Pratchett owns DW. This is the first story in a series featuring Hanna the seamstress. Enjoy!

I.

            Mrs. Rosemary Palm passed the paper back across the table.

            "Foolish, Hanna. And maybe illegal."

            "There are no names, ma'am."

            "A list of the guilds and embassies is bad enough." Mrs. Palm pointed. "What are the stars?"

            "Guild presidents, ambassadors, noblemen above a certain rank…"

            "Foolish."

            Mrs. Palm had invited herself to the fire-lit parlour of Hanna's house to give some last minute coaching before the rigours of the evening began. She headed the Guild of Seamstresses, the only guild in the city of Ankh-Morpork to name itself after a euphemism. A seamstress had little to do with needles unless the client requested it, and thread was only a small part of what a seamstress would not be wearing if she did her job right. The guild had 30,000 members in a city of a million souls. Membership numbers meant influence, and influence made Mrs. Palm a woman to be reckoned with.

            "The guild forbids ladies to keep client lists, Hanna," she said.

            "Lists of names, ma'am. I have the by-laws here." 

            "I know the by-laws. I wrote them. This," She indicated the paper that Hanna now held in her hand, "straddles the line and you know it. Why do you keep it?"

            "Years of work have paid off, ma'am. I can see it here, all in one place. All of the major guilds, noblemen, diplomats. I wouldn't have showed it to you at all except…I thought you'd be proud."

            Mrs. Palm softened a little at the look on Hanna's face. It was a look of pride, not arrogance. Simple pride in a job well done. Mrs. Palm appreciated hard workers with a sense of achievement. She wished all of the seamstresses were like that. Alas, some were meant only to walk the streets, and some were like Hanna, who'd left the streets behind and excelled beyond all expectation. 

            Of course, Mrs. Palm was aware that Hanna showing her the list -- tonight of all nights -- was a subtle message: _I'm a professional. Don't worry_. 

            "I am proud, Hanna," she said. "But you must be sensible. The list smacks of a violation of confidentiality. That is the first sin of the guild. Destroy it."

            Without a word, Hanna went to the fireplace. She moved with a relaxed eroticism that had helped her rise to the attention of so many prominent men. The clientele had circulated a saying about her: Her face wouldn't launch a thousand ships but the easy going swing of her hips would start each and every one of the engines. 

            The mantelpiece contained a clock flanked by two glass vases, one full of tiny paper butterflies, the other with swans. Hanna dropped the client list into the flames and returned to the table. When she uncorked a pottery pitcher, her sitting room smelled instantly of cinnamon and nutmeg. She poured two glasses of spiced wine. Mrs. Palm took them both and set them at her elbow.

            "No alcohol for you," she said. "Not tonight. You have work to do."

            "Not even a bit of hot wine? It's Hogswatch."

            "The Client will know it. He has nothing against alcohol, he simply wants his Chosen Ladies to be extremely…aware." Mrs. Palm selected a cup and blew on the steam. "I have already made it clear to you the importance of tonight. I want none of your mischief…" She glared over the cup. "…like with that Borogravian baron last week."

            "He liked my jokes."

            "This Client won't. He has an idiosyncratic sense of humour. I don't think the standard double entendre will amuse him."

            "Why won't you tell me who he is, then? I can plan my tactics better."

            "He prefers anonymity."

            "It's ridiculous. Rumour has it he's--"

            Mrs. Palm held up a hand. "He so loves the element of surprise." She smiled a little. "For other people, anyway. And you know better than to repeat rumours." 

            There was a small sewing basket full of scrap paper at the foot of Hanna's chair. She fetched a piece and began folding it.

            "What kind of service does he expect, ma'am? Surely you can tell me that."

            "You'll find out soon enough. It changes every year." Mrs. Palm watched Hanna's fingers work with the paper. "In the early years, he talked the whole night."

            "How normal. Most of my clients talk and talk." The paper changed shape in Hanna's fingers. "About themselves, of course. Or work. Or they complain about the ruined state of affairs. How terrible the Patrician is…"

            "Tonight's Client will not be like the others, Hanna," Mrs. Palm said sharply. 

            "Why not? Whoever he is, he's only a man. Unless he's a dwarf." Hanna laughed. "Or a troll." 

            "That attitude will bring you difficulties, believe me." Mrs. Palm shook her head. "Listen, be prepared for a lot of questions. He will ask about anything he pleases."

            "A curious one, is he?"

            The scrap paper acquired two pointy ears, legs, a tail. "He likes to know things," said Mrs. Palm. "About everyone. Except that I've been told his questions can become very probing. Some of the Chosen Ladies from previous years came back quite distressed. They wouldn't say what he asked."

            Hanna smiled and held up a paper cat in the palm of her hand. "I can be curious too."

            "Don't be foolish. Do not pull any of your usual antics. The Client is not like the others. If anything goes wrong tonight – absolutely anything -- I will be more than displeased."

            The clock on the mantel chimed nine times. Mrs. Palm and Hanna sat and listened until the sound died away. After the last chime, they heard the sound of carriage wheels halt in the snow outside. They went to the window and looked down upon a coach that had a perfect black sheen. It looked like a funeral carriage. The driver did not look up at them.

            "Well, then," said Mrs. Palm. 

            Hanna pulled on her boots and fetched a bundle that contained some of the tools of her trade. She shoved it into the wide pocket of her coat. Mrs. Palm hovered, tucking up a loose piece of Hanna's hair, fluffing the sleeves of her gown.

            "Nervous?" she asked.

            "Not at all, ma'am."

            "You're lying." Mrs. Palm gazed at her approvingly from arm's length. "There's no need to worry about the rumours. No lady has ever come back with cuts and such like. The Client never passed the silk stocking phase." She helped Hanna put on her coat. "Perhaps all he'll do is ask you to eat a plate of peaches."

            Hanna dropped her glove as she laughed. "He did that to someone?"

            "The whole night he simply sat and watched her eat. The Lady hasn't touched a peach since."

            They stepped out into the cold. Mrs. Palm stayed in the doorway of Hanna's house and watched as the driver climbed down and helped Hanna into the carriage. At the last minute, Mrs. Palm trotted into the snow and tapped on the carriage window. Hanna opened the door.

            "Good luck," said Mrs. Palm. 

            "Thank you, ma'am."

            "And for gods sakes, be good."

As the carriage rolled its way through Ankh-Morpork's snow-flushed streets, Hanna slipped a random scrap of paper from her pocket and began folding it. She worked obsessively. It wasn't long before there was a tulip, a cube and two dragon flies on the seat beside her. Mrs. Palm had demanded absolute honesty with the Client and had advised Hanna to prepare herself mentally for anything. As much as Hanna hated to admit it, that preparation had mainly involved weeks of fretting. Fretting meant folded paper. She'd filled the vase on her mantle piece at home with butterflies and tossed the extras into the coal bucket. She wasn't worried so much about the rumours of the Client's strange tastes. The secrecy bothered her. The days when she didn't know who her next client would be were long gone; she never wanted to return to them. The paper in her hand had changed into a slightly lopsided Hogswatch star. Hanna tossed it on the seat beside her and grasped another scrap of paper. She could plan her tactics if she was only sure who the Client was. Despite her little…quirks…her knack for knowing what a client wanted had got her where she was today.

            Every year, Mrs. Palm put out a Ten Most Wanted list of the most sought after men in the city. The names on the list fluctuated as seamstresses, urged on by financial incentives and prestige, competed to win them as new clients. 

            Hanna was known as a generalist in the guild but if she had a specialty, it was the list. She'd acquired at least two new clients off of it for five years running, something no other seamstress had managed. Earlier in the year, she'd even roped the head of the city's top guild, a man who'd been #2 on the list for several years. With great satisfaction, Hanna had inked a red star on her private client list next to his guild, the Assassins.

            For that achievement, Hanna had earned a place in Mrs. Palm's annual drawing for Hogswatch service. She was nominated for what in Seamstress Guild circles was called the privileged Ten, seamstresses who had performed during the year some extraordinary duty. From the Ten, one was chosen in a random drawing by the goddess Fate – patroness of the guild -- to spend Hogswatchnight with the city's most exclusive Client. There were whispers about who he was but Mrs. Palm always refused to confirm them. And the twelve Chosen Ladies from Hogswatches past were forbidden to speak under the rule of confidentiality. 

            Among guild members it was an honour simply to be nominated. Hanna had wondered the past few years why she'd never made it into the Ten; her client list read like a who's who of Ankh-Morpork. 

            What she didn't know was that Mrs. Palm had considered her too much of a risk. Hanna was good at her job, very good, but she was known for a certain amount of willfulness. It was a character trait that amused Hanna's noble clients, but which Mrs. Palm thought the Hogswatch Client would not appreciate.

            Eventually, though, she bowed to the obvious. Hanna deserved to be nominated. When Fate drew her name from the crystal vase in the guild's main hall, Hanna had thought: It's about time. 

            The carriage slowed and Hanna wiped the window for a better look at where she was. The graffiti on the walls that surrounded Unseen University glowed with whatever magical properties the student wizards had injected into the paints. She recognized the area; as a young seamstress she'd done quite good business with the students. If only the Client was a wizard… _That_ would be something. A pompous, well-fed wizard would be less likely to do the things Hanna had heard whispered about the Client – needles, hooks, knives. She hoped they were boogie stories, black seamstress humour to rattle her. 

            The university was left behind. Hanna sighed and tossed a frog onto the rest of her paper creations.

            Te carriage driver finally reined up in a courtyard lit only by a single lantern that swung in the breeze from its hook over a doorway. A young man extended the carriage steps and helped Hanna onto the snowy cobbles. He had a bland, nondescript face, the kind easy to miss in a crowd and easy to forget after he was gone. There were no greetings. As the man waved for Hanna to follow him inside, she hesitated. She recognised the massive stone building, ancient, gothic, its towers dominating the city. The rumours had been right after all, she thought. She smiled to herself, and as she stepped inside the Palace of Ankh-Morpork, she coallated in her mind what she knew about the Client. Quite a lot, actually. Her regular clients had been free with their opinions of him.

            It might have been a servant's entrance. The halls were of slick stone with no decoration. Hanna folded her arms to keep out the cold and followed the glow of the man's  candle. They passed through a series of corridors and climbed a long, winding stairway before they reached a wallpapered hallway. The young man pointed to a brass hook that extended from the wall, and as Hanna hung up her coat, he tapped a piece of the wallpaper. A door-sized panel swung open. Hanna stepped alone into the dark room beyond.

            It wasn't completely dark. The curtains on two tall windows had been pulled aside to allow the moonlight to reflect off the snowy rooftops. There was no one else in the room. The young man had silently closed the wall panel, and Hanna could no longer see where she'd come in. A trap, she imagined, as she folded her arms tightly and shivered.

            "Are you cold?"

            Hanna gasped and turned quickly toward the voice. It had been a soft voice with a low timbre. She saw no one.

            "It's freezing in here," she said.

            "Warmth gives one a false feeling of comfort while the cold keeps the mind sharp." The voice sounded like it was somewhere else now, behind her and to the left when before it had been in front. Hanna stared into the shadows until her eyes nearly watered. How could he move without being seen? Then she remembered something a client had told her about training in the Assassins School. Silent, invisible movement, he'd said, was a matter of technique. The Client had been trained by the Assassins…. 

            Hanna smiled in the darkness. "A game of hide and seek, is it?" she said. 

            There was a long silence. She listened for breathing other than her own and heard none. She quite liked games. If the Client expected her to play, she would toddle right along.

            She threw back her head and sang: "Come out, come out wherever you are!" 

            There was a low chuckle from the shadows and a swish of fabric as of crossed legs unfolding themselves. The silence came again, filling the room. 

            "Shall I close my eyes and count to ten?" Hanna said. She slapped a hand over her eyes. "One…two…three…"

            "There's no need." And he was there, right at her ear. Hanna gasped again and tripped over the hem of her skirt as she scrambled away. The Client was a shadow in a black robe, too tall, too thin. He bowed briefly. "I do apologize if I frightened you."

            With his back to the window, his face was obscure. Hanna saw only two tiny reflective lights in his eyes. She was sure he could see into the shadows, that he saw her better than she did him. She backed up another step and scolded herself for doing it. 

            "If I light a fire, I'll have to close the curtains," said the Client. "That would be a pity; the snowy rooftops are so cheerful, don't you think? Perhaps the only place in the city where snow remains pure." He turned to the window and Hanna saw his profile, the sharpness of his face, the knife edge nose, the thin lips which flickered into a brief smile. It _was_ him. 

            "However," he said, "I would not be a gentleman if I did not give up the rooftops for a lady." 

            He moved quickly, closing the curtains and leaving the room in total darkness. It seemed several minutes before Hanna heard the crumble of paper, the scrape of one log against another, and the harsh rasp of a match being lit. The light formed an orange halo round the tips of the Client's fingers. He stooped before the fireplace and touched the match to the paper.           

            "If you could give me some assistance," he said.

            Hanna reluctantly knelt beside him. He blew gently on one side of the flames; Hanna imitated him and wondered why he didn't use the bellows that she saw hanging on the wall beside them. 

            "There," he said finally, sitting back on his knees. "A merry fire for a merry Hogswatch, don't you think?" He got smoothly to his feet and held out a hand to help Hanna. His skin was cool and had the dryness of paper.

            As the fire grew, its light revealed more details of the room. It was a relatively small sitting room with sofa, armchairs, a cabinet, sideboard and bookcase. A painting of a woman with penetrating green eyes, the goddess Fate, hung over the mantelpiece. There was only one door, at the far end of the room. 

            The Client stood behind an armchair, his hands folded over its curved back. "Would you like to take a seat?" There was something in his voice that told Hanna the answer could only be yes, and that the only choice was that chair. She sat. "If you paid any attention to where you were brought, you must know who I am," he said.

            "Yes, sir."

            "And?"

            "I'm not as surprised as I thought I'd be, sir," she said. "There were rumours." 

            Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork, circled to the sofa. He crossed his legs and folded his hands on his knee. Hanna noticed that he moved just fine without the walking stick he normally used in public.

            "So refreshing when rumours prove to be true, hmm?" he said.

            "We've met before, sir. Mrs. Palm introduced us at a guild dinner some time ago. I've seen you at other social functions but I don't think we've ever really spoken."

            "I believe I recall your face," said the Patrician. "Your name was… Now, let me see…"

            "Mrs. Palm didn't tell you?"

            "I usually ask her not to. I can't say that I delight much in surprises but," he waved a thin hand, "it is Hogswatch."

            "My name is Hanna, sir."

            "Ah, yes. Of course. Hanna." He pronounced the name long and leisurely as if trying it out for the first time. "You've been in the guild how long?"

            "Fourteen years, sir. I joined the year you founded it."

            "You can't be much over 30."

            "Not much, sir."

            "You were late to the profession."

            "I chose it, sir. It did not choose me."

            There was a long pause. The Patrician stared at Hanna so long that she shifted her gaze to the fire.

            "I would be grateful if you could call me something else," he said finally.

            "Pardon, your Lordship, but I thought--"

            "Not that either." The Patrician sighed. "You would be amazed at how natural it is to be called these things. Sir. Your Lordship. Almost everyone does. Very few people have the confidence to call me by my name. At times, it seems I'm nothing but a title, quite nameless, like a ship that sails but was never christened. It normally doesn't bother me, of course. Without office and position, what am I?"

            Hanna examined his face and was surprised to see a vague sadness there. It didn't match what she'd heard about the Patrician: Vetinari the immovable, the bloodless, the heartless. Hanna knew as well as any other seamstress with noble clients that a man's private persona was usually different than his public one. But the Patrician's wistfulness was almost too normal, too common. Mrs. Palm had said he was not like the others.  

            "What would you like me to call you, sir?" 

            "What do you think would be appropriate?"

            "It would be rude to use your last name without the title, and your first name…I can't call you that. I don't know you well enough." Hanna forced a smiled. "Yet."

            "No matter. I will not press the issue." His face suddenly changed, shifting from sadness to polite interest in an instant. "Tell me, do you have family?"

            "I thought you knew, sir."

            "Is there a reason that I should?"

            "I was told it's impossible to tell you anything you don't already know." She felt another smile coming on, a genuine one. "It seems answering your questions might be a waste of my tongue."

            The Patrician gave her a long, stony stare. Hanna called up her reserves of self control to keep from chuckling. She rather liked her little jokes. She had a hundred of them.

            "I have a sister, sir," she continued hurriedly. "She runs a brewery in Ansbach. In the family 500 years."

            "And what of your parents?"

            "They died when I was young, sir." 

            "How young?"

            "I was eight."

            "Do you remember them?"

            "Barely."

            It occurred to Hanna what bothered her about the Patrician's gaze. He blinked so rarely. In her line of work she'd been watched, gazed at, peeped at, stared at, gawked at, leered at and looked up and down. This stare was something entirely different. It was like she'd moved through life without ever having anyone's complete attention until now. It was unsettling. She got out from under his stare by turning her eyes to the fire again.

            Neither of them spoke for awhile. In Hanna's view, it was not her job to talk too much. Though amusing conversation was part of her arsenal, a seamstress was the very opposite of a gossip. A seamstress was a listener. Clients who would never trust a confidential word to their wives confided in a seamstress. They could, at least, rely on her discretion. 

            That's why Hanna had learned so much over the years. Her clients talked and she listened and she had formed from these competing perspectives a picture of the goings-on in the city. From whether grain prices would rise because of a bad harvest in the countryside to what had been said in a closed-door City Council meeting. She didn't use the knowledge, merely noted it with interest and kept silent. Confidentiality was the hallmark of the guild. 

            The Patrician's stare had barely budged in ten minutes. He suddenly blinked. "I would be obliged if you would come sit beside me, Hanna."

            She moved to the sofa. As soon as she was settled, the Patrician took her hand and rested it in his. He seemed content to stay that way for awhile. It reminded Hanna of before her guild days, the touchingly amateur hand holding and sneaked kisses behind the flour barrels with the baker's son on Serendipity Street where she grew up. 

            "You have several paper cuts," said the Patrician. 

            "I work a lot with paper, sir."

            "The wrong kind, apparently. I get mine from Biedermeyer on Frogcross Street, very good quality bond. Soft edges."

            "Do you have any here, sir?"   

            The Patrician looked at her blankly, then went to rummage a bit in the cabinet. He returned with a single sheet of creamy paper. Hanna rubbed it between thumb and index finger. It was good quality, she could feel it by the grain. The Patrician watched as she ripped the sheet in four, laid a quarter on her leg and began folding. The general shape came first, a rough oval. After more creasing and tucking, other elements emerged – a long neck, the wisp of a tail. Finally, Hanna folded the edges back, revealing wings. She held up her creation in the palm of her hand.

            The Patrician took the little swan between his fingers. 

            "A former client taught it to me, sir," said Hanna. "He filled a vase for me with a thousand tiny swans. I still have it."

            The Patrician sat the swan on the mantle piece and returned to the sofa. "In a certain country I will not name, it is said that 1,000 paper swans is the offering a man must give before he may propose to a woman."

            "He was quite sad when I refused him, sir."

            The Patrician's face very carefully didn't move. He'd been referring to the Agatean Empire, a gold-rich land that he denied existed for fear that its gold would devalue Ankh-Morpork's more amalgamated currency. Only a handful of imperial citizens had ever visited the city. The Patrician had naturally had them watched. There had been no reports of a visit to the seamstresses…

            Hanna was smiling at him, an I-know-that-you-know-that-I-know kind of smile. The Patrician rearranged his face again into its look of polite interest. 

             "Tell me," he said brusquely, "What do you do when you're not working?" 

            "I'm almost always working, sir."

            "Ah, something else we have in common." He picked a piece of invisible lint off his  robe and released it to the air. "Then I should say, what do you do in those few moments of spare time you may get in the course of a week? I believe that what many people do to relax you would call work."

            "I like to read, sir."

            "Capital. A good past time. You don't strike me as one who reads those rather shabby romantic stories the maids here pass around."

            "No, sir. I like history." 

            "Really? That is impressive. I didn't know the guild library had history on offer."

            "It doesn't, sir. I have an…arrangement with a certain gentleman who allows me to use his library." Hanna began idly folding another square of paper.

            "Very practical. Work and pleasure combined. It is well known that Lord Selachii has the best library for history in the city…" The Patrician watched Hanna, who didn't glance up from her work. "…but there are surely others of quality. Perhaps you will be interested in a new history of Ankh-Morpork that will be made public next month." 

            "I've read it, sir."

            The Patrician blinked.

            "The section on Stoneface Vimes was especially interesting," said Hanna as she continued creasing the paper. "Completely different in the final version than in earlier drafts. I was happy to see the Guild of Historians has changed its views on him. Seems to me a man who chopped off the head of a mad king should have been honoured all along."

            "Thank goodness history is as open to interpretation as the present," the Patrician said slowly.

            "I was disappointed that you chose such a traditional design for Old Stoneface's statue," said Hanna. "I quite liked the one with him brandishing an axe in the direction of the Palace. A heroic pose, I thought." 

            The designs for a statue of the man who had single-handedly ended the monarchy in Ankh-Morpork had been circulated among very few people. Hanna was acquainted with several of the artists, who'd given her a look at the sketches even before the Patrician had seen them. "I heard Commander Vimes preferred the axe wielding design too," she said, smiling. "And shouldn't Old Stoneface's descendant have had the last say?"

            "He did. In the end he agreed that the axe should be less conspicuous."

            "That doesn't sound like him at all."

            The paper in her hands had been transformed into a small, spiked crown. Hanna fit it on her thumb, then tossed it into the fire. They both watched it disintegrate into ash.

            "You appear to have political views," said the Patrician.

            "I don't think much about it. I usually have more important things on my mind." At the look on the Patrician's face, Hanna back-tracked a bit. "I don't mean to be provocative, sir," she said. "We're both in the same business, really."

            "Are we?"

            "Public service."

            The Patrician's face twitched into a smile. "There are a few _minor_ differences…"

            "Fewer than people think."

            "You do mean to be provocative, Hanna." He shook his head and made tsk, tsk sounds. Hanna smiled.

            "All right, maybe a little. But we're both in the business of making people's lives easier. Some people's anyway. I've worked for years at it, just as you have. I wouldn't compare your achievements to mine, of course, but I am…proud that I've been able to achieve what I have. I could be brewing beer in Ansbach like my sister, but instead I'm here." She waved an arm. "The section of the public I serve is more limited than yours, but it's just as important to me. I'd never give up my clients for an administrative post at the guild or an exclusive contract with a single client. I've worked far too long."  

            The Patrician stood up abruptly and paced in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.

            "Tell me, Hanna, why do you think I founded the Guild of Seamstresses?"

            "Because Mrs. Palm is your friend."

            He stopped. "No, she is not. She is an ally. In my position, I can't afford to cultivate friends. Everyone, without exception, must be categorized as ally, enemy or neutral party. Incidentally, no one is ever really neutral. The categories change at quite an alarming rate. It is half my job to keep up with the shifts." He looked down at Hanna. "Which category do you belong to?"

            She didn't even have to think about it. "I'm your friend, sir. For tonight only, if you wish me to be."

            Slowly, the Patrician smiled. "You're quite a bit quicker at these things than some of your colleagues."

            "Thank you, sir."

            "Please come with me." 


	2. Two

II.

            He strode to the door at the end of the room and opened it with a flourish. Beyond, candles burned, illuminating a room of dark green dominated by a large canopied bed with thick curtains. Hanna realised then that the only way in or out of the suite was through the secret panel. 

            The Patrician pulled the bed curtains aside.

            "Please take a seat, Hanna."

            The fireplace was cold and despite the many candles, the room was too. Hanna sat, hoping she'd soon be under what looked like especially warm blankets. She was grateful that things were progressing. The Patrician interested her, she had to admit. But Hanna had no desire to eat peaches all night and she wasn't, she realised, in the mood to answer any more of his questions. She would if she had to, of course. She was a professional. Yet "commerce" – the euphemism preferred in the guild -- would be simpler and certainly faster. The Patrician was no longer young. Though he was known for sleeping very little, she hoped that if she got him in bed, he'd sleep within a couple of hours. Maybe she'd have her peace until dawn. 

            He hovered by one of the bed posts. "I believe it was last year's Lady who was altogether too…eager," he said. "Quite a forward young lady."

            "Julia, wasn't it? She's that way."

            "Did she tell you what we did?"

            "The Ladies are not allowed."

            "Nor will you be." His face lightened as if a joke had just occurred to him. "I asked her how many egg nogs she could drink without falling asleep. She said four and I asked her to break the record. She drank five and was out like a light. She snored horribly."

            Hanna giggled, her hand over her mouth. 

            "She bored me, you see," said the Patrician. "I wanted her asleep. I would like you to stay awake."

            "I'm honoured, sir."

            He went to the dresser and began pulling papers out of the top drawer. "Do you read music, Hanna?"

            "Yes, though not well. It was only a few years ago that Mrs. Palm added it to her requirements for ladies with upper class clients."

            "A worthy move." The Patrician settled onto the bed, his back against the head board. "This is Tellian's Piano Concerto in C." He squared the papers on his knees. "It begins in common time. C major, of course." He glanced at Hanna. "Come closer. You can't see from there. That's better. Now…" He raised a thin hand in the air as if it held a baton. "On the downbeat is a rest, the upbeat begins the piece. Imagine the tones as you read. There's nothing between you and the mind of Tellian himself. This is the purest form of music without being a composer, the notes living there in your head." 

            His arm dropped the downbeat, then rose again. Hanna stretched out beside him and tried to follow the notes on the sheet music. It was hard going. She wasn't good at reading music to begin with and she had no ear for the tones without first hearing at least a C. Though the Patrician regulated the beat, Hanna quickly lost track of where she was supposed to be.

            At the bottom of the page, the Patrician dropped his hand. "You're lost," he said.

            "I'm afraid so."

            "Was it too fast? Tellian wrote allegro."

            "It was a bit fast, sir. And I don't know what the notes are supposed to sound like. I have to hear them first."

            "You learn by ear, hmm? Not a bad talent." He took a breath. "If you promise never to inform anyone else, I will…sing the notes for you." He looked at her, his face grave. "You must promise. This is above and beyond normal guild confidentiality. You will be the first to hear me sing since the Year of the Beaver when they forced me to join in the Assassins School song during a visit of the Patrician of that time."

            "I promise. Of course."

            The Patrician settled back, raised the baton hand again, and began the beat a bit slower. His singing was a series of "tah-tee-tahs" with the occasional "dee-dum" to the rhythm, his voice rising and falling with the notes. He was an untrained but still pleasant tenor, especially sonorous in the lower register. Hanna relaxed against him; she could hear the hollow tones of Tellian's piece as they vibrated in his chest.

            At the end of the first page, he stopped. "Was that better?"

            "Oh yes, thank you, sir."

            He tucked the first page of the score behind the stack and raised his hand for the second. It dropped the downbeat. Hanna lifted her head.

            "You've stopped singing, sir!"

            His hand hovered on the upbeat. "I did not say I would sing the whole score."

            "Won't you?"

            He touched her face, ran a finger along her cheek and into her hair where it stopped to tap her head.

            "The point of this is to meet the mind of the composer directly, without the intervention of voice or instrument. I was merely helping you get started."

            "I'm not good enough at sight reading, sir," she said.

            "Then I will teach you."

            "In one night?" Hanna laughed, delighted. It had been a long time since a client had amused her this much. Perhaps she could charge extra for using her brain instead of her body. How much was intellectual strain worth? An extra hundred? Two? 

            The Patrician was staring.

            The look on his face of dour disapproval was like a gulp of champagne to Hanna. She rolled onto her stomach and began laughing into the pillow, real laughter, peals of it. She didn't know why. It was as if she'd slipped on a patch of ice and couldn't stop herself from sliding. Something beneath the laughter warned her that even a singing Patrician was not someone to laugh at. But she went on anyway, sliding. She laughed that she'd been so nervous the past weeks, that the rumours about the Client had worried her, that the silent servant and secret room and disembodied voice of his had unsettled her. This was not the Patrician she knew from her clients. He was a man who made one Lady eat peaches and another drink egg nog to the point of unconsciousness. A man who sang and would teach her music…

            "You appear to be laughing at me," said the Patrician sternly.

            Hanna coughed into the pillow. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't know what's--"

            "In 13 years, no Lady has ever dared do that."

            Hanna tried to get up but the Patrician pressed her back down onto her stomach. "Now that you're there, you should stay there," he said quietly. "If your little fit of merriment is over, we can return to our previous discussion. On the reading of music. Do you know the concept of osmosis?" 

            "No, sir," Hanna said into the pillow. She'd sobered up again almost as fast as the laughter had come.

            "It is the theory that one can learn new things without effort by absorbing them directly into the mind through sleep, touch or other means." The Patrician began to undo the laces in the bodice of her dress. "Would you like to try an experiment in osmosis?" he asked. 

            Hanna sensed that it wasn't really a question. The Patrician allowed her to stand up and pull off her gown. She wore a white chemise underneath, nothing else. If her clients required the corset and garter belts and stockings, she carried them in her coat pockets and put them on upon request. It was a time saving measure. Most of her clients got frustrated trying to get the things off of her. She began pulling up the chemise but the Patrician stopped her.

            "There's no need. Lay back down, please." He disappeared into the sitting room as Hanna pulled the blanket around her and shivered. She was regretting the laughter and hoping the Patrician was enough in the Hogswatch spirit to allow her a little spontaneous merriment. She repressed a vision of the slim knives she'd heard he possessed, and thought instead of Mrs. Palm's words: No Lady had ever come back with cuts. 

            The Patrician returned with a portable writing kit, a wooden box with a slanted front where papers could rest, a quill and ink well at the edge. He set them on the bed. 

            "Please turn over, Hanna," he said. He pulled back the blanket as she settled onto her stomach, her arms cradling her head. For a minute or so, nothing else happened. Then he touched the sole of her left foot. Very lightly. He touched her ankle, and moved the chemise up as he ran his hand higher on her leg. He pressed her calf as if to see how firm it was and ended with a brush of his fingertips on her left thigh. "Quite suitable," he muttered. Then his fingers were gone.

            Another minute passed. Hanna heard a shuffle of papers, another moment of quiet, and … there was a cold, wet pressure on the heel of her left foot, then a scraping motion. It couldn't have shocked her more if she'd been attached to a lightening rod. The muscles along her leg tensed up but otherwise she did her best to keep still, waiting for the next bit of pressure. It came then, a single scrape from ankle to calf that then dipped into the hollow of her knee and continued onto her thigh. She let out a giggle and involuntarily moved her leg.

            "That is unacceptable, Hanna," said the Patrician. He licked his thumb and rubbed the place on her thigh where the ink line had curved off. She giggled again. Despite Mrs. Palm's best efforts to cure her, she was still intensely ticklish.

            "Do try not to move anymore," said the Patrician. He finished the line to the top of her thigh and paused to dip the quill in the ink. Then he drew another long line near the first. A pause for ink, and another line. And another. Until there were five black lines along the length of Hanna's leg. 

            "You're doing very well, Hanna."

            The papers rustled again, and the Patrician began to write. Little pressures, scrapes, swipes. The quarter notes and rests and arpeggios of Tellian's Concerto were slowly traced onto Hanna's leg. She gritted her teeth to keep from laughing and gripped the sheets in her fists. 

            It was some time before the Patrician finished her left leg. He set the quill into its holder and brushed Hanna's hair out of her face. 

            "Asleep?"

            "No, sir." 

            "Good. I did say I wanted you to stay awake."

            The Patrician mulled over his work, dissatisfied. "I should have written it the other way," he said absently. "Thigh to ankle, not ankle to thigh." He sighed.

            Hanna pulled herself onto her elbows. "You're not going to do it over again, are you, sir?" She had barely endured the left leg and couldn't imagine repeating the experience. 

            "No. No. I live with my mistakes. There are so few times when I'm allowed them."

            He began on her right leg. Instead of getting used to the sensation of the quill and the wet ink, Hanna found it even more unbearable. Her mind played tricks, guessing where the next pressure or scrape would come, whether it would be a half note or sixteenth. The anticipation was worse than the actual tickling movements of the Patrician's pen.  

            After another space, he set down the quill.

            "I wonder how long it will take for the ink to dry," he said. He touched the heel of her left foot. "This is barely dry and it's been over an hour."

            "Are you finished, sir?" 

            "Certainly not. We only have a very small part of the first movement." The Patrician put a hand on Hanna's back. "We shall proceed as far as we can. If you please…" He pulled at the chemise, and Hanna lifted herself enough to get it disentangled from her hips. He helped her slide it over her head and dropped it onto the floor. 

            The Patrician dipped his pen and carefully traced long lines down her back, one after the other.

            "You're shivering," he scolded. "It's rather hard to write when you do that."

            "It's cold, sir. And it tickles."

            "I believe there is hot cocoa. For later." It took longer to fill her back than it did her legs. The Patrician finally paused to survey his work, then tested the ink on Hanna's left calf. 

            "Almost dry. We will wait a little while." He packed up the papers and the writing kit and set them on the dresser. "Do you hear Tellian's concerto in your mind yet?" he asked.

            Hanna propped herself up on her elbows. "Ta-dee-da-dee-dum—dee-daaaaah…"

            "That, I believe, is the opening of the Hedgehog Song," said the Patrician, smiling. "But it appears we're moving in the right direction." 

            Hanna smiled as well. She was immobile on her stomach and her skin felt alarmingly, wonderfully sensitive and she admitted to herself she was having fun. It was the last thing she'd expected. 

            The Patrician busied himself making a fire, then sat on the edge of the bed. "A warm room will be effective for the drying process in the long run, but perhaps I should help things along."

            He bent over her and touched various parts of his work. On the parts that were still wet, he leaned in close and gently blew with long, warm breaths, just as he'd blown on the fire in the sitting room. The combination of his breath and the sheer closeness of him was so effective that Hanna forgot the cold. Her eyes drooped, then closed. As her mind drifted, she thought of her client who had once told her that the Patrician – the client had actually called him Dogbotherer -- was the coldest man in Ankh-Morpork. A piece of political clockwork, meticulous, mechanised. Hanna had thought it comical that her client truly believed that a man could be a machine. She knew better.

            "Wake up, Hanna."

            She surfaced slowly and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the room. "Is everything dry, sir?"

            "I believe so. Come look at my handiwork."

            Hanna groggily pulled herself off the bed and noticed the mirror against the wall. It was a full length one, usually attached to the door of a wardrobe. The Patrician had apparently unhooked it and set it length wise on the floor as she dozed. He had another long mirror in his hands. Hanna laid on her side, her back to the wardrobe mirror. The Patrician knelt in front of her and positioned the second mirror.   

            "What do you think?" he said.

            The musical notes looked like a tribal tattoo on her skin. She smiled at the strangeness of it, then she noticed…

            …she could read the music just fine. In the mirror. 

             "You wrote it backwards," she said with disbelief. 

            "Mirrored, actually. It would be useless for you to learn Tellian the wrong way round." He propped the mirror on the side of the bed. "And now we will try it again. From the beginning. You will sing."

            "I can't--"

            "I will help you." He took a breath and sang out a tone. "That was a C. The beat will be so." He tapped her hip lightly with a finger. "Upbeat on two… And…"

            Hanna sang. Her voice was just as untrained as the Patrician's and tended toward the soprano. His finger moved along the ink on her leg, showing her where she was supposed to be, and her voice rose and fell as she followed the meticulous lines and circles. By the time they reached the music on her back, she was no longer stumbling so much over the rhythms.

            "Unbelievable," she said when they had finished. She rolled onto her back and hummed the beginning of the concerto.            "A satisfactory result of the experiment, yes," said the Patrician.  

            "I wonder what else people could learn that way," said Hanna. "Math? Foreign languages?"

            The Patrician tapped his lips thoughtfully with a slim finger. "Languages. An intriguing thought. The acquisition of vocabulary is always such a challenge." He nodded. "Perhaps next time we'll try Klatchian."

            "Let's hope next time Fate chooses a Lady less ticklish than me."

            The Patrician's face went blank. He gazed at Hanna for some time. Just her face, as if her nakedness held no interest. She avoided his gaze only by looking in one of the mirrors. In both she saw the same thing; herself, make up smudged, hair mussed, wearing only a thin gold necklace. She closed her eyes and waited to see what would happen next.


	3. Three

III.

            Hanna's clients were wrong. The Patrician was not clockwork. Only when he saw her eyes were closed did he allow his gaze to wander away from her face. It was somehow less… rude…to look upon her that way. And because he was not a machine he admired the shadow along the curve of her breasts in the candlelight; and because he was not clockwork he allowed his gaze to linger a long while at her navel, a flat and fertile land that emptied in the south in the basin of her hips and spilled into the delta below…

            "Hanna," he said. She opened her eyes. He was looking at her face again. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

            She sensed that the question wasn't what he'd intended to ask. She sat up. "It's more important that you enjoy yourself, sir."

            In one smooth movement, the Patrician got to his feet and moved the mirrors away.  "If you are asking if I am a satisfied client, I would say… yes. To some extent." He held out a white dressing gown for Hanna. 

            "To some extent?" she said as she slipped her arms in the gown with a twinge of regret. She'd thought things had been moving in the right direction. "I am sorry about the laughter, sir. Sometimes I get a bit…"

            "No, no. I've already forgotten about that." A dark look crossed the Patrician's face, a sign that perhaps he forgot less easily than he admitted. "In recent years I've been quite disappointed with the Ladies, I'm afraid. Several months ago I decided that this will be my last Hogswatch as a guild client."

            Hanna followed the Patrician back into the sitting room, where he tended the fire for a moment with a metal poker.

            "Mrs. Palm will be… She'll…" Hanna couldn't think of a strong enough word. Angry wouldn't do it. Furious was too mild. Mrs. Palm had spent several weeks vexing Hanna about the burden of Hogswatch duty, the importance of the tradition, the significance of the Client, how _unfortunate_ it would be for the guild if the arrangement changed. Hanna could imagine Mrs. Palm's face when she got the news. Displeasure wouldn't approach it. Someone would have to be blamed and it was clear who that would be.

            "Surely things haven't been that bad, sir," she said.

            "Tiresome Ladies five years running," said the Patrician.

            "Have you talked to Mrs. Palm?"

            "It is not her choice but the goddess Fate's, hmm? And I haven't yet discovered how to contact her."

            "Perhaps the nomination system could be changed."

            "I doubt that would help."

            The Patrician set the poker aside and turned from the fire. He watched Hanna for a moment, then sat beside her.

            "You have been quite…entertaining. But I'm afraid your general conduct tonight is more proof that the guild is not producing the type of Ladies appropriate for my service."

            Hanna rummaged around the sofa for the paper she'd ripped earlier. She found a square of it on the floor and began folding it quickly. Mrs. Palm, she thought, would expel her from the guild. That was clear. She'd made the warning earlier in the evening in veiled language that Hanna had understood loud and clear. Hanna would be expelled and her clients would be strewn to the winds, to any seamstress who could grab them. It wasn't right. She'd worked for years, had toiled for…

            "You will not be blamed," said the Patrician as if reading her mind.

            "Mrs. Palm will expel me."

            The Patrician looked taken aback. "Dear me. Rosemary must be quite stricter with guild members than I thought. I will certainly make it clear to her that the decision was made before you came."

            "It won't matter. She…" _was worried that something like this would happen on my watch_, thought Hanna. The paper under her hands wasn't shaping right, was revealing itself to be a concoction of lopsided folds, ragged creases. She tore it in frustration and threw the pieces at the fire. 

            The Patrician watched them flare.

            "What would change your mind, sir?"

            He sighed. "I make decisions carefully after long, deliberate thought. I don't easily change them."

            Hanna found it difficult to speak. She looked straight into his eyes instead, an attempt without words to make him understand what expulsion meant. It would be the end of her career. Without guild membership she could not work. When her savings ran out, perhaps she could work in her sister's brewery, but it was a terrible fate for a woman who had dined with diplomats and heard the secrets of the city's noblemen. 

            Her thoughts suddenly crowded out of the way to allow something else, an observation, to catch her attention. She realized she wasn't the only one beaming messages with the eyes. The Patrician's seemed to be telling her that decisions could be changed. Perhaps. Hanna blinked and thought his eyes said: _Convince me_.  

            She got to her feet. "I suppose I'll toss my guild card in the fire, shall I? I won't be needing it." She marched into the bedroom and rummaged in the pocket of her gown. The Patrician followed and watched her flourish the card at the fireplace. "Fourteen years in the flames," said Hanna.

            He stopped her arm and gently took the card away. "There is no need to overreact. Rosemary is a reasonable woman."

            "She is, sir, but not about this." They were close now, and closeness was Hanna's specialty. She touched the Patrician's beard, just at his chin, then slowly swept the back of her fingers along the line of his jaw. "Perhaps you could reconsider."

            "I'm afraid not."

            She touched his hair then, the little strands just behind his right ear. This close, she noticed that he smelled a bit dusty, like a well-used book. 

            "Couldn't you put off the decision another year?" 

            The Patrician shook his head. Hanna's hand trailed to the buttons on his collar, and when he didn't react, she went on tiptoe and brushed his frown with her lips. He made no move to embrace her or to kiss her back; neither did he pull away. This passivity was not something Hanna was accustomed to. She kissed him again, longer, her arms wrapped round his neck. His reaction was minute. He stooped a little to allow her to stand more comfortably. He did not reach for her.

            When they parted, Hanna saw in his face an absent look, as if his mind was elsewhere.

            "Please reconsider," she said quietly.

            He shook his head again.

            She whispered in his ear. "Please."

            There was no answer. Hanna looked in his eyes and sought a spark of something she could use. There was nothing.

            "I can be more convincing," she said.

            "Don't be foolish."

            It was what Mrs. Palm had told her earlier in the evening. Hanna knew she was sometimes foolish, that everyone was at some time or another. But she'd be damned if she would allow herself to be called it twice in one night. 

            A slow smile spread across her face. Her fists grasped the length of the Patrician's robe as she sank to her knees. 

            He came to life then.

            "_What_ do you think you're doing?" 

            The hem of his robe was above his knee now. As Hanna hooked an arm around his leg, his muscles tensed. She pushed his robe up higher and gingerly touched the scar at his thigh.

            "I demand that you end this nonsense," he said. It was his most patrician of voices, solid authority, designed to be obeyed. Hanna ignored it. He tried to step away but she had a good hold on his legs. 

            "Release me this instant," he hissed as he bent to push her away. Hanna held on.

            Despite his protests he was obviously…intrigued…by the turn of events. Hanna did nothing about it for the moment, merely grasped the rest of his robe and raised the hem so she could work without obstruction. She began planting very small kisses along his  leg.

            The Patrician wavered like a tower in a strong wind. His hands sought support and found it in one of the bed posts. 

            "Continue this and I swear you will…"

            Her kisses moved higher.

            "This _folly_ of yours will not…"

            Hanna paused to do some delicate work with her fingers. It could be said she had very cunning hands. Some of the best in the city.

            "You fool…" said the Patrician. Hanna didn't know if he was referring to her or himself. She didn't really care. His hands found her hair, began pulling out pins and dropping them on the floor.

            "You want to continue to patronise the guild, don't you?" said Hanna, glancing up at him. His eyes were closed. He looked furious. 

            "Don't you?" she said. 

            The Patrician tightened his grip on her hair. She went back to kissing him. His breathing changed.

            "Fool…"

            "Don't you?"

            "No blackmail."

            "Then tell me you'll stay with the guild."

            She kissed him some more, teasing, torturing.  

            "All you have to say is yes," she said.

            "No." 

            She resisted his pressure, the tearing of her hair, and kissed him again. "Say yes."

            "Blackmail…"

            "For gods' sake, say yes."

            What the Patrician didn't know, and what made Hanna so confident of success, was that she could do this to him for hours. Keep him right there on the edge. She had reduced other men to desperation. The Patrician was not that far along but the night was still young.

            "I will not give in to…blackmail," he said. As Hanna worked, the Patrician pulled the last of the pins out of her hair and twisted the locks tightly in his fists, his only means of retaliation. Tears gathered in her eyes. 

            "Say yes," she said.

            "No."

            "Havelock."

            "How dare you?"

            Another kiss. "Havelock, you will stay with the guild. Say yes." He said nothing. She sampled him then, a quick flick of her tongue that made him shudder. 

            "Say yes."

            "No…"

            She said it softer. "Havelock." 

            "No. _No_." 

            She could hear in his voice that he was weakening, his anger dissolving. When before he had tried to push her away, now she had to fight to keep him from pulling her too close.

            "Say it," she whispered. 

            "I warned you."

            Hanna stopped and glanced up at him. His eyes were still closed but anger was no longer what showed on his face. Still, his mention of a warning bothered her.

            "End this now," she said uneasily.

            She listened to his breathing and hoped he had the sense to give in. When he finally said yes, the word was so soft that she could barely hear it. 

            She was so relieved that she allowed him to pull her to him. He seemed to forget her completely, merely plunged toward his own release. She was the method, the means, nothing more. And then, as Hanna thought she would drown…

            …he stopped. He gently pushed her away and she collapsed, gasping. He undid the buttons at his collar with some difficulty – his hands shook – and pulled his robe over his head. He grasped Hanna's arm and pulled her to her feet. She disentangled herself from her dressing gown and climbed into bed, the Patrician following, already reaching for her. 

            Hanna had been in the guild long enough that commerce had long ceased to excite her. There were a few clients, here and there, with whom she was glad to share a bed because of their playfulness, sensitivity or nobility of spirit. But with the Patrician, she couldn't help but observe things analytically. It wasn't his fault; commerce was less a matter of technique – who was good in bed and who wasn't – and more a matter of personality. In the days when she hadn't known the clients she was  with, Hanna had often made a game of guessing their personalities based on how they conducted themselves in bed. 

            The Patrician puzzled her. She sensed somehow that he was aware of every move he made, had consciously decided to touch her _here_ or kiss her _there_. And unlike most men, he kept his eyes open. She had to turn away sometimes to break his blue stare. He'd run his teeth along her neck then, lingering vampire-like at the main vein. If it wasn't for his breathing and the soft moans – these she suspected he threw in for her benefit -- Hanna wouldn't have known he was enjoying himself.

            And of course, he couldn't hide the tension in his muscles, how his body seemed to coil. She put a hand on his heart, guild policy for all clients over a certain age. It beat as it should, like all men's. He finally closed his eyes, his body clenched, and there was an escape of breath with a moan that unlike the others sounded genuine, and then… relaxation. She saw in his face something of a catharsis, an allowance of a few uncontrollable moments. 

            He rested his forehead on her chest for a moment and dampened her skin with his breaths. Hanna searched for the right word for what she was feeling. It was something like pity. For the most part, he made love like a seamstress. He was too aware. For this, she pitied him like she sometimes pitied herself.

            He rolled onto his side and pushed his hair off his forehead. "Not altogether…sufficient," he said.        

            Hanna hoped she knew what he meant. "For some women, it's not so easy," she said. "I think it insults my clients if I dramatize."

            He watched her a bit longer, then his eyes drifted shut. "The hook next to the wardrobe leads to the bath," he said. "If you require it." 

            Hanna slipped out of bed, padded over to the hook and pulled. A wall panel slid open beside her. Inside was a small but clean privy, warmed, she guessed, by some shared pipes with the fireplaces in the sitting room and bedroom. There were towels and pitchers of water, which she used to clean herself up. The guild had strict rules of cleanliness.  

            Back in the bedroom, she blew out the candles and climbed into bed again. She had a personal policy to remain with clients until she was sure they were fast asleep. There was something comforting about her presence. She'd just settled in when the Patrician opened his eyes. 

            "This won't do," he said.

            "What won't?"

            "This…" He touched her hip. "…selfishness." 

            "You don't have to--"

            He kissed her. These were deeper, warmer kisses than before, but Hanna had the feeling that the Patrician was using them to distract her from what he was doing under the covers. Touching her, exploring, deciding on a course of action. Once he had, and Hanna knew it by how his kisses grew more shallow, his fingers became her center of attention. She felt warmth growing inside of her, spreading like a blanket.

            It was a slow process but the Patrician was a patient man. He caressed her and kissed her and listened to her breathing quicken. On her face he saw enjoyment, but the type one gets, perhaps, from drinking a good cognac. It was not what he wanted. He ducked under the covers.

            Hanna raised them. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

            He traced his fingers across her navel, her hips. Hanna let the blanket drop. She was quite sure that what she thought was about to happen couldn't possibly…

            She let out a gasp as if she'd been drowning and just surfaced for air. The shock couldn't have been stronger if she'd grasped a lightening rod in a storm. She gasped again,  her eyes squeezed shut. No, she was thinking, he would never… How could he…? The shocks continued and she tried to bite her lip to keep quiet but it wasn't long before she was talking – she didn't know what she was saying really, after awhile, something between "oh" and "gods" – and wrapping her fingers in his hair. Beneath everything she remembered that her clients had said the Patrician had a silver tongue. How useless, she thought. Useless. Like a feather is better, soft and playful and … _gods_… 

            Because he was a patient man, the Patrician worked slowly and meticulously. He was really quite pleased at Hanna's reaction.

            "Stop!" she cried. She released his hair and flailed at the headboard, her hands closing round the pillow. The Patrician obeyed immediately. Hanna pushed back the covers and moaned, "Why did you stop?"

            And so the Patrician, who was a quick learner, learned the double language of Hanna's brand of ecstasy. She cried for him to stop, but he didn't. She sobbed for it to end, but he ignored her. Only when she begged, loudly, her words almost incomprehensible, and then her body calmed, weak from fatigue, did he stop. He surfaced into the air again. Hanna lay breathing, eyes squeezed shut, a hand limp over her eyes. 

            "I believe," he said, "that refreshments are in order." He slid out of bed and went into the sitting room.            

            Hanna still gasped, the air in the room not enough. She was having serious doubts that she was awake. Surely her imagination had invented a Patrician with such a…talent. She refused to call it a skill; it would imply that he practised and that was something she couldn't accept. Not him.  

            He reappeared carrying a tray loaded with a water pitcher, a corked pot that smelled of chocolate, some fruit and a few open faced sandwiches. Hanna sat up and gulped down the glass of water he poured for her.  

            "Where did you learn to do that?" she asked. He poured her a second glass, which she also drank down quickly. He appeared to be considering his answer carefully. 

            "Cocoa?" he said. "It has a bit of rum in it, I'm told. Quite nice in the cold." Hanna nodded. He continued sipping water.

            "A little knowledge of anatomy goes a long way," he said finally. "And of course, after spending a number of years keeping all manner of citizens in this city happy, I should think I can manage it with one woman." He smiled disingenuously. 

            Hanna shook her head and drank the cocoa.    "Don't let word get out," she said. "Women would chip away at the walls of the palace with pickaxes and chisels to get to you." 

            "I shall certainly keep quiet if you will." 

            They drank and ate in silence for a while. When they were finished, they stretched out on the bed. 

            "Do you know the time?" Hanna asked.

            "Just after four." The Patrician closed his eyes. "Do you have an appointment?"

            "At dawn."

            She rested her head on his chest. He pulled the blanket over them both.

            "Dawn is at 7:56, I believe," he said. "The wizards have a more reliable way of calculating than the almanacs."

             She yawned.

            "Sleep," said the Patrician.

            "It seems such a waste of time."

            He smiled at the canopy. "Time is as regular as the sun rise and unstoppable as the tides. I have always found that comforting. The problem with time, of course, is that it is regular as the sun rise and unstoppable as the tides. It comes without our bidding and we don't know what it will bring."

            Hanna yawned again, her mind drifting already. Her head rose and fell on his chest as he breathed. An unstoppable tide, she thought, as she fell asleep.


	4. Four

IV.

            She opened her eyes because he was shaking her. 

            The Patrician was fully clothed, his hair smoothed down, looking ready, on the whole, for a normal day's work. 

            Hanna stretched. "Dawn already?"

            "In half an hour. There is breakfast in the sitting room."

            She sighed as she pulled herself slowly out of bed. She stumbled around looking for her clothing and found her chemise rumpled on the floor. The Patrician had her gown over his arm. 

            When she re-emerged clean and clothed, her hair tamed by a brush she'd discovered in the bathroom, she found the Patrician in the sitting room at a small table set up in front of the windows. The curtains were pulled back, showing the twilight color of the sky, the grayish blue that could have been either the moment before dawn or nightfall. Breads, cheeses, sausage and fruit were laid out on the table. Hanna drifted toward the smell of coffee and they breakfasted together in silence. The Patrician ate very little, only a bit of bread and cheese, but he emptied coffee cups like nothing Hanna had ever seen. No wonder he was famous for functioning on so little sleep.

            She looked at him over the edge of her cup.

            "Did you know that you snore?" she said.

            "You must be mistaken." The Patrician poured a refill.

            "I heard you."

            "I do not snore."

            "You're so sure?"

            "Quite."

            "You've heard yourself?" 

            The Patrician set down his cup. "Someone would have told me."

            "Someone's trying to." Hanna bit the edge of her cup and acknowledged defeat in her attempt at levity. 

            The Patrician dabbed his mouth with a napkin and then simply sat, his back straight in the chair, his hands in his lap. To Hanna, his face was alarmingly neutral, the expression so bland that she couldn't tell if he was tired or annoyed or simply distracted, his thoughts elsewhere. She didn't need his face to sense that there was nothing left of the intimacy from the night before. She sighed. It was often like this. Best to make a quick exit. 

            She went in search of her boots and found them under the bed. When she returned to the sitting room, she was patting at her pockets.

            "Have you seen my guild card, sir?" she said.

            "I threw it into the fire last night."

            "They charge fifty dollars for a replacement," she said, glaring.

            "That's nothing you have to worry about."

            "It'll take two weeks. I'll be out of work until then."

            The Patrician smiled. It was the most unsettling smile Hanna had ever seen. Combined with the Patrician's eyes, that smile slowly dragged her back to her chair at the breakfast table. She sat again, her fingers wrapped tightly around the seat.

            "You intended to burn it," she said softly.

            "I do nothing without cause, Hanna." 

            The Patrician unfolded a paper from his pocket. "I would like to read something to you." He paused a moment. "In the second place, any seamstress who attempts, successfully or unsuccessfully, to extort, blackmail, deceive or otherwise levy inappropriate pressure on a client in the form of services in exchange for information, influence or some other gain for her own profit outside her normal duties, will be penalized under paragraph 23b depending on the severity of the offence." He set the paper on the table. "From the by-laws of the Seamstresses Guild, as you know."

            Hanna stared at the paper with rising dread. 

            The Patrician pressed his fingers together. "Last night, you had the…_audacity_…to blackmail me. Perhaps extortion is a better word. The crimes share so many qualities." The tips of his fingers tapped his lips. "What you did could quite comfortably be considered..." He glanced back at the paper. "...inappropriate pressure. I am normally a tolerant man. But your actions were unpardonable to me personally and as the Patrician. It also happens that they were a violation of guild policy." He held up his hands as if offering two choices. "I believe the guild punishment will be much less severe than mine." 

            Hanna was barely listening anymore. She was thinking about the night before. Sexual pressure was forbidden, second rule of the guild. Apprentices knew it. She knew it, but she'd spent a good deal of time bending guild rules – bending, not breaking, like with her private client list – that perhaps, she thought, she was beginning to lose sight of the boundaries. She looked at the Patrician, whose face was grim. He had warned her, hadn't he? Had mentioned blackmail last night. But something bothered her about that, something beyond just the trouble she was in. She couldn't put her finger on it.

            "I didn't think I had a choice, sir," she said quietly. 

            "That kind of thing is said quite often when I judge criminal cases," said the Patrician. "Of course you had a choice. When before Mrs. Palm might have expelled you, now she certainly will." The Patrician went to the window and looked out, his hands clasped behind him. "I'm afraid I must inform Mrs. Palm of that necessity. Nothing permanent. I will suggest, perhaps, three years."

            "_Three years_?" Hanna's chair hit the floor as she got to her feet. 

            The Patrician continued to speak to the sunrise outside the window. "The punishment may sound harsh but the crime was blackmail of the Patrician. I should think if left on her own, Mrs. Palm would expel you permanently." 

            "It will ruin me!" Hanna said. "I'll lose every client I have. I've worked _years_ to build them up; it took years to get clients from every major guild, the noble families, the diplomats, the..." She stopped. The Patrician hadn't moved from his vigil at the window, but the suspicion that had taken root earlier in Hanna's mind was growing like milkweed. Clients from every major guild, she'd said. The noble families. Diplomats. Important people, yes, but more importantly, people in the know. 

            She stared at the Patrician's gaunt form. "You think they tell me too much, don't you?" she said. "Too many important men talking to one little seamstress."

            The Patrician didn't turn his head.

            "Who was the last straw?" Hanna asked, almost to herself. She thought a moment about her coup from earlier in the year, the head of the city's top guild. "It must have been Downey," she said. "He was one too many."

            She was thinking more clearly now, piecing things together. Hogswatchnight. Once a year the Patrician, the Client, received a list of the top ten seamstresses in the city. The women most likely to be talking to – or worse, listening to – too many of the wrong people. The tradition had been his way of monitoring them. It was clear now why he'd always made such eccentric demands on the Ladies. Commerce in the guild sense didn't interest him.  

            "Is it really worth so much trouble?" she asked. "We're just seamstresses."

            "In this city," said the Patrician softly, "there is only one person upon whom all information converges."

            "But I never used it! Guild confidentiality—"

            The Patrician finally turned, his face stern. "How long until you would have broken confidence with your clients for your own gain or protection? Until they enlisted you to shuttle between them, a messenger perhaps, with information that is innocent to you but dangerous for me or the city?"

            "Ridiculous. I would never—"

            The Patrician raised a hand. "I have ruled for fourteen years by keeping the various interests in healthy competition. It is a delicate balance. If all groups are too busy pulling in different directions, they never get around to pulling together. They'd cause certain mischief if they did. Danger can come from one tiny thread winding through the city, connecting them all, acting as vessel and conduit for information. It is my task to sever the thread when I see it." 

            "I'm not a conspirator," said Hanna.

            "It was only a matter of time."

            The room was stifling hot. Hanna leaned against the breakfast table for a moment, then abruptly sat down in the Patrician's chair. She knocked over a glass in her haste to reach for the water pitcher. As she drank she knew that of course, the Patrician had planned all of this from the start, from the drawing of her name for Hogswatch duty to her actions of the night before.

            "You lied about ending your patronage of the guild," she said. "You forced me to--"

            "I forced nothing. You simply did what you thought was right at the moment." He paused. "I gave you several chances to stop. Fair warning."

            Fair. Hanna was surprised the word showed up in the Patrician's vocabulary.

            "And Mrs. Palm? Did she know what you wanted to do?" She tightened her hand into a fist beneath the table.

            The Patrician righted Hanna's chair and sat down. "There was no need to inform her. I do not mix myself in guild affairs. Normally. Though if she hadn't nominated you this year, I would have had to take other measures."

            Hanna swallowed the last of the water and plunked the glass on the table. "Well, let me say what a masterful bit of entrapment it was, your Lordship. I'm flattered you thought me important enough for all the personal attention." She smiled a little. "It must have been so amusing for you. I do hope you enjoyed yourself." 

            The Patrician leaned back in his chair, his expression blank. "I suggest you rethink the butter knife you have under the table," he said calmly. 

            She whipped it over his head. It clattered against the window and fell to the floor. The Patrician hadn't flinched. She hadn't really intended to use the knife on him, of course, but his infernal calmness…it made everything worse. 

            Hanna stalked to the wall where she assumed the servant had opened the secret panel the night before.

            "I would like to go home now, your Lordship, and scrub this damn ink off my back," she said. "Show me the secret door and I'll be on my way." 

            "I'm afraid you must find it for yourself."

            She glared at him, then ran her eyes over the vine patterned paper. It looked all the same, no creases, no tell-tale bulges or discoloration. She tried moving a couple of wall mounted candleholders but nothing happened. Knocking on the walls didn't yield a solidity that might signal a door. Tired of the search, she sat down on the sofa. "I'll wait until you leave, then," she said, folding her arms.

            The Patrician sat beside her. "I will wait until you find the door."

            "We may be here a long time."

            "Oh dear." The Patrician crossed his legs. "Time is unstoppable, isn't it? Before we know it, three years will be gone."

            _Three years_? The comment jarred Hanna enough to cut through her anger. She was learning that the Patrician spoke in double meanings, triple ones, that his words had to be held up to the light like a prism. Three years. It was her punishment, expulsion from the guild. But he could mean something else. _Here_ for three years, in this room. Not in the room. The Palace. He'd said...

            "What do you really want from me?" she demanded.

            He smiled as if he was delighted that she'd finally caught on. "Have you heard of the _hetaerae_?"

            "No."

            "In ancient times, the Ephebians encouraged the rise of a certain type of lady. Well educated, elegant, trained in various arts." He arched an eyebrow at Hanna. "Such ladies could probably sing better than you. But no matter. The hetaerae entertained only wealthy and powerful men, providing both intellectual and physical companionship."   

            "It doesn't sound all that different from what I do."

            "Indeed."

            The Patrician folded his hands in his lap. "I propose that you continue to develop your professional skills in this direction, but within the framework of a mutually beneficial business arrangement."

            "With you?"

            "Yes."

            Hanna shook her head. "If you think I'd spy on my clients for you--"

            "Dear me, no. I would never ask you to violate guild confidentiality. I rather count on you keeping it, as I'm sure you've always done."

            "Then…" 

            It hit her quite suddenly, the solution. She stared at the Patrician as in her mind, various elements of her night at the palace hooked together, pointing in one direction. "You want a…a private hetar—"

             "The term seamstress is sufficient."

            "Private seamstress, then. On an exclusive contract. Three years."

            "Correct."

            Hanna started pacing the length of the room, back and forth, thinking. The Patrician draped an arm on the back of the couch and watched her move. 

            "You knew I never take contracts," said Hanna without looking at him. "I said it last night, didn't I?" She thought about it. "I did. Early in the evening…" 

            The Patrician, she thought, had planned everything from the beginning, had wanted a contract he knew she wouldn't give him. Not of her own free will. He needed _leverage_.

            She put a hand over her eyes and pushed the anger down and tried, again, not to think straight, but in curves, like the Patrician. The question was: Why would he want a contract with her? He wasn't like other clients who'd asked for exclusive service. Clients who bought their mistresses. 

            It dawned on her slowly. She stopped pacing. "My clients…" she began.

            The Patrician nodded as if he knew what she was about to say. "There will be, of course, no need for you to tell me any of their secrets. It is far better to rely on their imaginations, what they _think_ you're telling me." 

            Hanna stared at him and had an inkling, at last, for how his mind really worked.  A chain of logical moves that yielded the maximum benefit. Three years was long enough for Hanna's clients to get comfortable with some other seamstress, ruining her chance of ever building up the clientele she once had. Ruined, she could never act as a link between the power brokers of Ankh-Morpork. 

            But why stop there? She was potentially dangerous for who and what she knew, but useful now for the -- she reached for the phrase _mental anguish_ -- of her former clients when they saw that their confidante was in the hands of the Patrician. Many were his enemies; they hated him for his efficiency and effectiveness and success. They had told her many things, and would assume she would tell him. Perhaps he also assumed that one day, she really would.

            She could also think of a side benefit for the Patrician. The important men of the city would think twice in future before confiding anything of consequence to a seamstress. There'd be no more need for Hogswatchnight with the guild.

            Hanna sat down again. 

            "If I don't agree to the contract, I assume you'll tell Mrs. Palm about my offence and demand my expulsion," she said.

            "A fair assumption."

            "That's blackmail."

            "Is it? I had no idea." The Patrician smiled sweetly. 

            "And I thought Downey was a bastard."

            "Now, now. No need for that." He tried to pat her hand but she pulled it away. "I did call it a mutually beneficial arrangement, Hanna. You will certainly feel better when you see the terms of the contract."

            "Already written, is it?" 

            The Patrician fetched a stack of papers from the cabinet and handed them to her. They were written on the same creamy Biedermeyer paper he'd given her the night before. "Exclusivity Agreement," she read at the top. "Parties: Lord Havelock Vetinari, Patrician and Hanna Louria Stein, Seamstress. Contract length: Three years. Terms as follows…" She glanced through the 24 clauses, her mind unable to fasten on any one point.     

            "As you can see," said the Patrician as he watched her read, "most of the terms are standard. You will, of course, be paid extremely well. If there are changes you wish to make to this draft, we can discuss them."

            Hanna set the contract on the sofa. On the surface it looked generous. But she needed more time to read between the lines. That's where the Patrician worked, she knew. 

            Three years. It was a long time to have a man like him as her only client. She couldn't wrap her mind around it. All she knew was that ever afterward, she would be branded. The Patrician's creature.

            "I can't agree to this, you know," she said finally. "If I'm expelled from the guild, I'll be unemployed for three years and will have to start again. But at least I _could_ start again. After three years with you, no lucrative client will come near me. I have to think in the long term."

            "I usually advise against planning too far in advance. It discourages flexibility."

            "The answer is no."

            There was silence for awhile. 

            "You surely planned for the possibility that I would refuse, didn't you?" said Hanna.

            "Of course." The Patrician sighed. "I hoped it wouldn't come to this. I do urge you to reconsider."

            There was another spell of silence. 

            "The answer is still no," said Hanna. "I won't give you the satisfaction."

            "Don't let your anger keep you from acting in your own best interest."

            Hanna said nothing. 

            The Patrician paced for a moment before the fireplace, just as he'd done briefly the night before. He suddenly stopped and loomed over her. 

            "I do not relish the thought," he said, his voice icy, "but I will not hesitate to use _persuasion_. It is sometimes necessary to encourage unfortunates to see the error of their ways."

            She knew about the scorpion pit, of course, and the old palace was said to have several torture chambers. The Patrician rarely used them. That was the rumour anyway. But with him standing over her, it occurred to Hanna that rarely did not mean never. Her clients had also told her things, that no one remembered what weapons he'd learned as a student at the Assassins School. Knives went without saying, but there were so many other possibilities. 

            She watched him go to the cabinet and return, a hand hidden behind his back. She slid down the length of the sofa and stumbled to her feet.

            The Patrician fixed her with a harsh gaze.

            "This is your last chance to freely agree to the contract, Hanna."

            Trembling with anger and fear, she knew, just _knew_, it was one of his thin blades that he was hiding. She glanced around the room. No way out. Only, perhaps, the window… As she turned to it, the Patrician grasped her wrist.

            "Hanna," he said sharply.

            "Please let me go."

            "I'm afraid that's not possible. Do you still refuse?" She stared at the window, escape, and didn't answer. "Very well," said the Patrician.

            His hand moved so fast that she didn't see it. She could only feel, at her throat, the sensation of…

            Her body reacted to the sensation instead of her fear. Involuntarily, she giggled.  

            The Patrician brandished a long white feather. 

            "My most refined of tortures," he said without a trace of humour. He fluttered the feather at her neck again. Hanna squirmed.

            "You're…" She squealed as he waved it in her face. "You're out of your…"  She slapped it away from her nose. "Stop that!"

            The Patrician dropped the feather and reverted to his hands, which were more effective anyway. Hanna made a clumsy effort to push him away but she was too busy giggling and trying to twist out of his grasp.

            "Stop!"

            "When you agree to the contract."

            "No."

            He tickled her until she was doubled up on the floor. The expression on his face was a bit out of place compared to Hanna's hysterics; it looked like he'd heard a vaguely amusing joke.

            "Say yes, Hanna."        

            "I…won't…" she gasped.

            "You will. Say yes."

            "No!" 

            "Dear me. What _shall_ I do with you?"

            She wasn't thinking, of course, by then. Only lying on the floor too weak to wriggle away from his hands, tears streaming down her face. The Patrician stopped when her face had turned a rather alarming shade of plum. 

            "Are you quite finished being unreasonable?"

            Hanna fell into a fit of coughing.

            "Slow deep breaths," he advised. 

            She finally managed to sit up and lean against the sofa beside him. "You have..." she swallowed, still breathing, "...a criminal mind."

            "I merely wish to see your willingness to negotiate on this beautiful Hogswatch Day," said the Patrician. "Agree to the spirit of the contract and you are free to leave. To play in the snow. Drink egg nog. Perhaps a nice Hogswatch goose at the guild dinner." He nodded. "Sounds lovely, really. The alternative, of course, is remaining here in this room with me and the feather." He held it up again. "I haven't begun to show you all its uses." 

            Offensive use of the feather, Hanna thought weakly. Certainly an Assassins School subject if she'd ever heard one. She caught her breath and tried to decide if the Patrician was a madman. He was ruthless, yes. Scheming, definitely. Odd, without a doubt. Mad seemed to be stretching it. He was, she thought as her breathing evened out, _whimsically_ sane. 

            She levelled a manicured finger at him.

            "I want no more scheming from you, sir," she said. "If you want something from me, ask. I won't stand for any more cunning bits of intrigue."           

            "Agreed."

            Hanna deflated. That was too easy.

            "I won't be your servant and come running every time you call."

            "I have too many servants already."

            "And you'll never hear a word from me about my ex-clients. Not a word."

            "I expect you to guard my confidences the way you do theirs."

            Hanna tried to think but it was hard going. She was suddenly exhausted. "Swear by whatever you hold sacred that you will never tell Mrs. Palm how all of this happened."

            "I swear by Ankh-Morpork that I will never tell."

            She couldn't help it. She smiled at him. "You know, that was very predictable."

            The Patrician looked pleased. "I can't see why so many people consider me difficult to understand." 

            Hanna got to her feet and brushed off her skirt. "There was no need for last night," she said. "The second half, anyway."

            "I tend to disagree. Look at it as a test of compatibility. A trial run before entering a contractual relationship." He flashed one of his rapid-fire smiles.  

            Hanna picked up the contract again and flipped through it. "Assuming the test of compatibility was successful--"

            "Sufficient," said the Patrician. "For now."

            "-- you get to buy my silence, ruin my client network, use me as psychological terror against the city's prominent men _and_ retain the option for my services four nights a week. I still think you're getting all the benefit from this."

            "Six, actually."

            "What?"

            "I took the liberty of inserting a six-night option into the draft contract. I realize four is standard but I would like a more flexible arrangement. Certain dinners and balls and such would require your presence."

            "If my clients see me with you, they'll..." The Patrician was nodding. "Oh," said Hanna. "I see." 

            "I'm especially looking forward to the look on Downey's face." Another one of his quick smiles, then the Patrician clapped his hands once. "So. We have an agreement?" 

            "I don't think I really have a choice."

            "Excellent." He gave her a folio for the contract. "Make whatever changes you'd like and I'll be happy to discuss them. But do write them up soon. There is an Assassins Guild dinner in two weeks that you must attend." He rubbed his beard thoughtfully. "Let's see…Yes. As soon as the contract is signed, my clerk will send you a copy of my social calendar with marks next to the events that require your presence. Lady Selachii is having a winter party not long after the guild dinner; all the noble families should be there. They should be appropriately scandalized by your attendance. In spring I would like you to host a gathering in the palace, a bit of a diplomatic mixer. We'll be having some heads of state in." The Patrician continued to rattle off plans as he went to the wall, gave it a tap and opened the secret door. 

            The corridor was empty. "And of course," he said, "we can make any other appointments at our leisure."

            By the sound of it, thought Hanna, the Patrician didn't have much of that. "Maybe I'll drop by sometimes," she said. "Uninvited."

            "Of course you may. You will have a suite here at your disposal. It was newly painted last week and I believe the furniture should be in soon. The delivery has been delayed twice. I meant to speak to the Guild of Interiors."

            "Mr. Stockwell has been ill lately," said Hanna. "A very bad flu."

            The Patrician caught her eye. "Ah. Then I will send one of my clerks."

            Hanna sighed, her mind already working on what she would say to Mrs. Palm. The elder seamstress was too experienced to accept: "Things went so well last night, the Patrician asked for a contract and just like that, I threw my vow never to give one out the window…" In whatever way Hanna broke the news, Mrs. Palm would probably make some sort of announcement at the Hogswatch dinner. _After 13 years, #1 on the guild's Ten Most Wanted list has fallen. Applause, everyone, for our very own Hanna Stein!_ There would be toasts, congratulations, the awe and envy of her fellow seamstresses. Slowly, Hanna warmed to the idea. There might be a few benefits from this business arrangement after all. Though she wasn't about to admit it to _him_.

            "I hope you have a rotten Hogswatch, your Lordship," she said. 

            "Happy Hogswatch to you too." He had the smile of someone trying hard not to look pleased with himself. Hanna wanted to slap him.

            Her papers clutched to her chest, she walked slowly down the corridor. It was a relief. She hadn't realized how claustrophobic it had become in the suite.

            "Hanna?" the Patrician called suddenly. She turned. "Do you play chess?"

            "Not very well."

            "Hmm. Something else I can teach you. How _interesting_ that will be." The Patrician disappeared into the sitting room.  

            Hanna found the silent servant on the other side of the hallway door. He took the folio from her and escorted her out of the palace without a word. At least until they were in the courtyard again where the black carriage waited. The sky was overcast but the air was brisk and clean. It steamed as the young man spoke.

            "My name is Drumknott, milady." He held out his hand. "I'm his Lordship's head clerk. I thought I should introduce myself. We'll be seeing a lot of each other in future."

            Hanna shook his hand. "The Milady thing is a bit much for me," she said. "Call me Hanna. I'm just a normal person, like you."

            "Not anymore, milady." Drumknott helped Hanna into the carriage. "His Lordship ordered me to treat you at ladyship rank." He handed back the folio.

            "When did he do that?"

            "Last month." Drumknott smiled cheerfully. "Happy Hogswatch." The door closed, the driver raised his whip, and Hanna stared out the window as the carriage rattled away. 

            In the sitting room, the Patrician poured himself a cup of cold coffee. He sipped it as he strode into the bedroom and took Hanna's guild card out of a dresser drawer. He tucked it into a pocket of his robe, drained the coffee and set the cup aside. He was back in the corridor before he remembered something else. Hanna's little paper swan still sat on the mantelpiece. It stood up on its own, wings out, ready to fly. As he left the room once more, he played with it, unfolding it to see again how she'd done it.

END    


End file.
